The Silence That Devours Its Name: Volume 1

This book is not a collection. It is a chamber—sealed, breathing, and older than your memory of entering it. Each page is a door that opens inward. Each poem is a held breath, a pulse beneath the floorboards, a whisper that persists long after the room has fallen silent. You have not opened this book. You have crossed a threshold. And what waits inside does not seek your understanding. It waits to be witnessed.

These verses were not written so much as unearthed. They rise from the damp timber of ancestral silence, from the rot beneath forgotten rituals, from the dust that gathers where grief has been stored too long. They speak in the language of bone and shadow, of wind that has forgotten its name, of echoes that refuse to fade. They are not stories. They are symptoms—evidence of something that once lived here, and perhaps still does.

As you move deeper into the chamber, you may feel watched. That is expected. These poems observe you as intently as you observe them. They do not comfort. They do not explain. They do not soften their edges for your ease. They ask only that you remain long enough for the silence to shift.

There are no heroes in these pages. Only echoes. A child humming to the bones beneath the garden. An archivist cataloguing regret in jars that never stay sealed. A stranger who knocks but never enters. These figures do not guide. They linger. And in their lingering, they reveal the shape of what you have tried not to name.

The horror here is not loud. It is patient. It is the horror of recognition—the moment you see your reflection in a cracked mirror and realise it blinks when you do not. It is the horror of rituals performed without memory, of kindness withheld until it curdles, of names spoken once and never again. It is the quiet dread of being known too well by something you cannot see.

You may return to certain lines without knowing why. That is not nostalgia. That is gravity. These poems spiral rather than progress. They decay. They bloom. They wait.

This book does not begin. It resumes. It is one turning of a cycle with no origin and no end. You are not the first to enter this chamber. You will not be the last.

But for now, you are here.

And the chamber has noticed.